The city of Kestrel Hollow clung to the base of the eastern mountains like ivy on stone—quiet, enduring, a little too proud of its age.

Its spires were squat, its walls cracked in places but still standing. Moss crept along the roads. The people rarely smiled without squinting, and the Light that floated in its highest tower flickered faintly, like a candle pressed thin by time.

In the council hall, rain tapped against the high windows while three knights lingered around a warped table littered with mugs, parchments, and one half-eaten loaf of bread.

Sir Kellan Orst leaned back in his chair, twirling a dagger between his fingers. “So the beast now has wings,” he said, smirking. “Or was it breathing fire this time?”

Sir Maeric Brund chuckled from his seat by the hearth. “No, no. You’ve got it wrong. This week it’s taller than a barn and eats only cows with blue markings.”

Kellan nodded solemnly. “Selective eater. A noble beast.”

“And smarter than half the nobles I’ve met,” Maeric added, both men chuckled.

A long pause stretched between them, the kind of comfortable silence shared by soldiers used to waiting for orders.

The third knight in the room, Sir Aldric stood by the window, arms crossed, staring into the mist-heavy streets. His armor was older than the others’, but well-cared-for. A thin scar ran down his cheek like a deliberate brushstroke.

“Every village has its monster stories,” Maeric continued, rising to pour himself a drink. “The moment a goat disappears or someone sees a shadow in the mist, it becomes a bloody demon.”

“I once met a man who swore he saw a woman turn into a wolf during a snowstorm,” Kellan offered. “Turned out she’d just fallen into a white cloak and bitten him for getting too close.”

That earned a small laugh. Even Aldric's mouth twitched.

Then the door creaked open.

Belthas Vrenn entered with a frown carved into his face and a satchel full of scrolls slung over his shoulder.

“Oh good,” Maeric muttered, “the rain brought us a scholar.”

“I see the gods continue to bless us,” Kellan added.

Belthas ignored them and moved to the table, setting his scrolls down with a soft thump. “You mock, but this is the third report in five weeks. All within the same valley system.”

“So we’ve graduated from farm tales to pattern-seeking?” Maeric said.

“I’d call it investigation,” Belthas said. “You’d be shocked how often they’re the same thing.”

Kellan raised an eyebrow. “You actually think something’s out there?”

Belthas shrugged. “I think something’s making people disappear. Whether that’s a beast, a desperate man with a blade, or a mass delusion remains to be seen. But it’s real enough to cause panic.”

“People panic when the bread runs out early,” Maeric said.

Belthas looked to Aldric. “Well?”

The elder knight spoke without turning. “Lord Ehran wants it looked into.”

Kellan groaned. “Of course he does.”

Aldric continued, “We leave tomorrow. Quietly. Find out what’s stirring the locals, settle it, come back. Nothing dramatic.”

Kellan leaned over to Maeric, whispering, “So long as ‘nothing dramatic’ doesn’t mean losing a limb.”

“Oh please,” Maeric replied. “If we get eaten, it’ll be by poor hospitality.”

Aldric turned to them at last. “We’ll need a healer.”

“I’m fine,” Maeric said, flexing his arms. “Sprained ego, maybe.”

“Not for us,” Aldric said. “For them. If the village wants help, they need to see we came with something more than swords and jokes.”

Belthas nodded. “Smart. I’ll prepare what I need. Find someone from the temple who can keep up.

That evening, the three knights split off to gather supplies while Belthas returned to the modest temple library.

It was narrow, dim, filled with a sharp herbal scent and dust that clung to the walls like memory. He ran his fingers across cracked leather spines until he found what he wanted.

Legends of the Hollow March, Pre-Fall Clans of the Black Spine Range, Folk Warnings and Miner’s Lore.

He studied them late into the night. Line after line of half-remembered histories: stone altars with unknown runes, sacrifices made to keep “what lives below” asleep, and tales of warrior tribes that vanished during a single winter.

Superstition. But like all stories, they came from somewhere.

The next morning dawned bleak and cold. Mist crawled down from the mountains, pooling in the streets.

A covered carriage stood waiting in the courtyard.

Belthas arrived first, followed by Kellan and Maeric—both in travel-worn cloaks, packs slung over one shoulder, blades strapped at their sides.

Aldric was already loading the last crate of supplies when the healer arrived.

She was younger than expected. Late twenties, perhaps. Slender, not frail, dressed in thick brown robes with leather gloves tucked into her belt. Her hood was up, shadowing much of her face.

She approached with a satchel slung over one shoulder and a wooden staff tucked under one arm. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and careful.

“I was told you were heading to Crossfield,” she said. “I’m Aelyne. I’ve been assigned to accompany you.”

Kellan gave her a once-over—not mocking, just surprised. “You’re the healer?”

She nodded quickly, eyes flicking toward the carriage, then to the knights. “I’ve… I’ve worked through sickness before. Rift Blight in the river district. Mended some bone. I don’t know much about fighting, but I can treat wounds and… keep people steady.”

“Good enough,” Aldric said, motioning toward the cart. “Help with the supplies.”

She obeyed without complaint, quietly moving to the crates.

Belthas watched her for a moment. There was no arrogance in her steps. No bravado. Just careful, precise motion.

He nodded to himself, satisfied.

Kellan leaned in toward Maeric. “She looks like a breeze could knock her over.”

“She’s a healer, not a battering ram,” Maeric muttered. “Not everyone needs a sword to be useful.”

“True. That’s why we brought a scholar,” Kellan teased.

Belthas raised an eyebrow. “If your sword arm fails, I’ll carve your epitaph in three languages. Consider it charity.”

Maeric grinned. “I’d prefer you write 'Died bravely, smelled terrible.' Make it poetic.”

They all chuckled—except Aelyne, who looked between them with a mixture of confusion and awe.

Once everything was secured, they climbed into the carriage. Inside, hay padded the benches, and a small lantern hung from the roof beam. Rain dotted the tarp above as the driver cracked the reins.

As the cart rumbled out of the city and into the mist-thick valley, conversation slowly resumed.

Belthas thumbed through one of his books, humming softly to himself.

“Ever read about the clans who used to live in this region?” he asked.

Maeric tilted his head. “Warrior tribes, right? Something about iron markings and buried temples?”

“That’s the one. They vanished during the final century of the Second Era. No war. No famine. Just… gone. All that’s left are weathered carvings and empty stone halls.”

“Sounds cozy,” Kellan muttered.

“Scholars think they worshiped something they found in the mountains,” Belthas continued. “Something older than the gods we know now.”

Kellan raised a brow. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe myths carry truth—even when bent through generations.”

A small voice from the corner. “That’s what I was told too.”

They turned to Aelyne.

She shifted in her seat, hands folded in her lap. “My mother told stories like that. Old ones. About things that don’t breathe but still watch. Stories people stopped telling when the Light came.”

Belthas regarded her carefully. “And what do you believe?”

Aelyne hesitated, then looked out the carriage flap at the trees rushing past.

“I believe the earth remembers things we’d rather forget.”

Silence fell. This time, thoughtful.

The road ahead wound through crumbling watchtowers and mossy remnants of older roads, the hills dotted with weather-worn ruins.